


Technically

by AdamantSteve



Series: It's Too Big, I Can't Take it! [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Body Horror, Hotel Sex, M/M, Office Sex, Phil has a huge penis, Unrequited Love, and he's secretly in love with Clint, big dick, but then maybe it's requited?, told from Phil's perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After fucking Clint Barton over his desk, Phil Coulson is wracked with guilt. He tries to avoid the man he's secretly lusted after for years, only for them to be thrown together when a mission calls. </p><p>Phil discovers that Clint wasn't as perturbed by his gargantuan penis as he'd thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Technically

**Author's Note:**

> This is a follow up to You Can, And You Will, which was told from Clint's perspective. This is told from Coulson's perspective and follows on from those events. You could probably read this as a stand alone but it's best to start with the first one I think.

_"Get the hell out of my office."_

Nice one Phil. Real nice. 

 

As the door closed behind Clint, Phil stopped pretending to read the form he'd been staring at since dismissing the man he'd just fucked across the desk. He wiped a hand over his face, then through his hair. His skin was damp, his clothes itched. He needed a shower, to wash off the smell of sex and the feeling of utter disgust he felt at himself. 

 

Sure, he'd justified it in his lust-addled brain that Clint had _technically_ asked for it, _technically_ specified everything Phil had made him do. Technically.

 

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

 

As it was, Phil's dick was so big he actually despised it. 

 

The practicalities of having a large penis were mundane and depressing. First of all, it hardly fit inside anyone. He had to suffer the indignity of buying condoms from a company called LongDongz.com. His relationships either petered out after the big reveal, since sex was just too painful and ungainly, or, if he let them know early on, he would get slapped in the face or, on the very rare occasion, end up with a crazed, cock-obsessed stalker on his hands. 

 

So he mostly took care of his urges by himself. Sometimes, on out of state trips by himself, he'd find an anonymous partner via Craigslist, running quasi-legal background checks via SHIELD records on anyone who responded and making sure to be gone by dawn. It was unfulfilling and lonely, and left him hating himself afterwards.

 

Usually, people finding out about it would laugh. Even if they didn't, they tended to ask lots of extremely personal questions that he didn't want to answer. So he kept it a secret, using a stall when he had to go to the bathroom, for instance, spending a fortune on creative tailoring, wearing layer upon layer whenever he'd work out in the gym. 

 

His everyman persona was hard work. He cultivated it as one would a bonsai tree. Keeping everything about himself compact, insular, unassuming, down to the most minute detail. A comically large penis did not fit in with who he was. He hated it.

 

And then Clint _fucking_ Barton, who he'd been pining over since he'd first seen him in a SHIELD briefing room, started talking about dicks and wouldn't stop.

 

He should have just looked at it. Just taken a glance when Clint had asked him to, exclaimed, "My, what a large penis that man has." and it would have shut Clint up, and none of this would have happened. But he didn't look. He didn't want to. He didn't need a reminder of his own monstrosity. 

 

But of course, like a dog with a bone, Barton refused to let it go. He kept on and on about it, not just over that mission but for weeks afterwards. Phil tried to nip it in the bud and say it wasn't appropriate to talk about such things, that Barton should concentrate on the target at hand, on and on, but it was too late. Clint had become convinced that Phil's penis was either a gargantuan beast or a miniscule 'pencil dick'. 

 

Phil had long ago given up trying not to lust after Agent Barton. He'd accepted that nothing would ever actually happen between them. After all, why would Hawkeye himself want anything to do with boring old 'form lover' Phil Coulson? But he allowed himself to idly fantasize about him, as one might daydream about how to spend a million dollars or what one might do if invisible for a day. And since he was Phil Coulson, he'd given each fantasy a number as and when he'd thought of it. They were all there in his mind. Clint holding his hand: Fantasy 44. Clint wearing a buttplug all day: Fantasy 95. Some of the fantasies weren't even all that sexy or interesting, but Phil filed them away anyway. Phil giving Clint a tiny golden bow and arrow as a gift: Fantasy 135.

 

He let himself watch Clint when his back was turned, watch him through his own field lenses under the guise of checking up on their target. He'd orchestrate mission set ups so he would be positioned somewhere that he'd be able to just stare, watch Clint do what he did best, so easy and carefree. He was so beautiful, so charming, in his own smack-talking, smirking way. It broke Phil's heart just a little bit every time he'd catch wind of Clint's string of hookups, men and women alike, met in bars and talked about in the cafeteria the next day. He knew he shouldn't, that one day Barton would leave, or settle down, and it would hurt to keep seeing him every day, hurt worse than it did already. But still he watched, listened to him over the comms, waited.

 

He knew Clint would never be his, and he was OK with it. But when Clint started in on the one subject he couldn't even pretend to have a sense of humour about, it was too much. To _know_ that Clint would laugh in his face if he found out his secret, rather than just _assuming_ he would, was too hard to bear.

 

Phil managed to keep a lid on his emotions for a long time. He'd counted to ten, taken deep breaths, threatened Clint with uniform modifications and range restrictions. But it just made it worse. Weeks it went on, with Barton bringing up penises at least once a mission, Phil anticipating but never quite managing to sidestep the subject.

 

One day, after discovering Clint had changed his ringtone to _Dick In A Box,_ Phil's mind was made up. He had to transfer Clint to another handler. He'd already thought it through and drawn up the paperwork, worked out who might be the best fit for the wild cannon that was Clint Barton, but kept putting it aside. As torturous as it was, Barton was like a drug- no matter how much he was ruining his life, he still wanted more. He put the forms in his desk drawer next to a dysfunctional arrowhead Clint had dropped on a mission long ago. Just knowing the forms were there was enough to get him through a few more dick-joke filled missions. 

 

There was a slight respite when they were between assignments and either on the Helicarrier or at SHIELD HQ. He could schedule their workloads so they didn't coincide and he didn't have to see or hear him. But since purposely trying to avoid him, Clint suddenly seemed to be everywhere. When he'd arrange a seminar for junior agents, Barton would be there at the back of the class. When he'd go for lunch, he'd be there, seemingly staring at his crotch as he'd walk by. When he'd go to the bathroom, Clint would wander in after him. 

 

It was the third such bathroom encounter that decided it. He had to transfer him. He told him from right there in the stall to go to his office, sighing as he heard him wordlessly creep back out. 

 

And then Clint was in his office, sitting there with his legs splayed like an insolent teenager. _This was straightforward. Unprofessional conduct equals punishment. Totally normal._ But Phil felt like _he_ was in the wrong, punishing his agent for his own physical faults and the resulting hang ups he had. But no. This was OK. This was by the books. _Technically_.

 

Why he didn't just open with the 'I'm transferring you' speech he'd been practicing for weeks, he will never know. Sidestepped the whole penis issue. Gone for the easy kill, swift and precise. Avoided the mess that came afterwards. 

 

Of course Barton claimed ignorance. Pretended he hadn't been terrorising Phil for months and ruining his life. Sitting there like he had no idea. No idea at all what he'd been doing to Phil, getting angry with him laying out the evidence of his unacceptable behaviour. What else did he expect? 

 

Barton sarcastically detailed things that Phil had only dreamed of, as if he'd read his mind and was laying out exactly what would never, ever happen. But he'd somehow found himself on the wrong side of his desk, kissing the words out of his mouth. Kissing Clint Barton! While he illustrated just how little he cared. Like he had any idea how much he was destroying him.

 

But he said those things! _Technically_ Barton said he wanted to suck Phil's dick. _Technically_ he went on to say that he wanted Phil to fuck him over his desk. 

 

And so he did. He took out his shame and fucked away any possibility of anything real ever happening with Clint Barton. And it was incredible. Up until the very moment he came, when fear and shame and embarrassment washed over him. The moment he was still seated inside him just knowing it was over, holding on for precious few seconds before Clint was gone, out of this office, out of his life, probably forever. Knowing that no matter what, things would never be the same again. 

 

Clint had looked perfect, so serene. Red lips, flushed cheeks, wonderful, normal sized cock, the body Phil had fantasized about running his hands and lips over, mission after mission. All laid out underneath him on his desk like so many neatly filled in forms. It was heartbreaking. To see what could never truly be his, even after he had stolen it in such a vile and dishonest way.

 

It felt like a dream that segued into a nightmare. Or a dream that only once you wake up do you realise the full horror of it in moments of flash back. There was Clint, wrestling his pants off, kneeling on the floor, opening his mouth at Phil's command to _get his dick wet_. Clint accusing him of wanting this all along (he had). Phil making him repeat the things he'd said in jest, as if that made it OK to follow through. Clint, bent over the desk, refusing to believe Phil's dick could fit in 'anyone', segwaying in hindsight to Clint weakly asking for it to be put back inside him because he was so fucked out and ruined. Phil's tone so cold, so _Coulson_ the entire time. He cursed himself. _Why was he such a fucking robot?_ Clint wanting to turn over so Phil would see his face as he practically raped him. _"I won't hurt you"_ he mocked himself, going back over his own words. And he'd made him take all of it! Something he'd only done a handful of times, to people who had specifically okayed it beforehand and who'd taken great pains to prepare for it. He'd probably done him some kind of internal injuries, let alone the mental scars. _God dammit, Phil._

 

And the things he'd said! Telling him to take it, that he liked it, that he'd wanted it for years. That he wanted to fuck him so hard he couldn't aim straight, which was true: he had fantasized about that, because he was the worst. The absolute worst person in the world.

 

Phil tried not to think about the sloppy, searching kisses, the touching, the hand holding that was the worst of it all. Every squeeze feeling like a cry for help in retrospect, that he just fucked right through. He tried not to think about the things Clint said back to him. 

 

Then afterwards, once the clammy layer of shame descended onto him that hadn't lifted since, he had no idea what to do. He fumed, sitting in the same chair where he'd pretended to look at a form to stop himself from staring at the prone form of a naked, fucked out Clint Barton on his desk, and told him to 'get the hell out of my office.' _Oh Phil._ He thought to himself. _What a mess._  

 

He was wracked with guilt. Putting aside his own personal heartbreak, he'd betrayed the trust of his subordinate, betrayed the trust of every single person he worked with at SHIELD. Broken dozens of rules and regulations, maybe even some laws. If nothing else, his career at SHIELD was over.

 

The office was different now. The ghost of his actions,  _the crime_ , lingered there. A few dots on the carpet under the desk where lube had dripped. Some faint crescent shaped dents under the edge where Clint had gripped onto it tightly. Tiny mementoes of a huge mistake.

 

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

So now here he was a week later, sitting in that same, ghost filled office, permeated with shame. He was waiting for some hand of judgement to come down, Fury or Hill to burst into his office and escort him from the premises, at the very least. Probably worse. His mind worked over time coming up with various torturous punishments, no less than what he deserved. He should just hand himself in, confess his crimes and leave with perhaps a shred of dignity intact, but he couldn't do it. 

 

He hadn't heard from Barton, who seemed to have been sticking to his schedule for once. Phil was at once relieved and depressed. He had no idea what to do. He'd messed up the two best things in his world. What happened now?

 

There was a knock at the door, Phil just about jumped out of his skin. Fury leaned in. _"You have been terminated. Give me your gun and your security card. You disgust me."_ No, he wasn't saying that. He was passing him a file and saying, "Coulson, there's been an attack in Boston."

 

Phil was already up, walking beside Fury in the direction of the armory. "Probably Hydra. The Avengers are already on their way. There's a helicopter waiting for you on the roof. More information is waiting for you there. Take a couple junior agents, it's probably nothing major but knowing Stark, there'll be a mess to clear up afterwards, whatever happens."

 

_What a relief._

 

PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

 

Boston was odd. A building in the financial district had suddenly fallen into a hole underneath it. It seemed that a secret underground Hydra base had been there, and since no one knew about it, building work above it had continued unabated, and fallen in when it got too heavy. That in itself could have been written off as an unfortunate planning accident, and luckily (amazingly) there had been no casualties, since the building hadn't been opened yet. The problem was, now the city was overrun with some kind of robot squid creatures that had escaped and were currently haphazardly crushing things. The chances of anyone from Hydra coming forward to help disable them was remote, so the Avengers did what they always did and saved the city by destroying half of it. 

 

As soon as the helicopter touched down on top of a hospital, Phil put his earpiece in. Missions like this, with the whole team, were led by Captain America; Phil would merely listen in and feed any important intel to them as and when it came up or was needed. He didn't hear anything from Clint, wasn't really expecting to beyond a few ' _on your six!'_ es and other tactical suggestions for the team from whatever high up point he was at. 

 

"These tentacles remind me of something from a Japanese website." Stark quipped, to radio silence. "Nothing? Anyone? Not even you, Birdy?" 

"They kinda remind me of Agent Coulson's giant dick."

 _What_?! Phil's eyes widened and he hoped no one else was listening in, or looking in his general direction.

"Sure it does, Spy Games. Like Agent 'Agent' Coulson even _has_ a penis."

Phil was mortified. Thankful that he wasn't required to participate in such a conversation but wishing it would end, immediately. Good job Stark never took anything seriously. He was so relieved he didn't even bristle at the jibe about him not having a penis.

 

"That's inappropriate, we all have jobs to do here. I suggest we get back to them." 

 _Thank god for Steve Rogers,_ Phil thought to himself, _I always did like you,_ realising he had crushed his own tie from holding onto it during this overheard exchange.

 

The mission half-wrapped up with relative ease; Clint's exploding arrows seemed to be the key to stopping them, but even Hawkeye ran out of arrows eventually, and there were still a dozen or so tentacle creatures holed up around the city. Clint was pretty much the only person with a good enough aim to take them down from a distance. It wasn't as simple as just blowing them up, there was some kind of onboard command system that had an exposed USB port (of all things), which seemed to be their only weak spot.

 

They had a briefing in the hotel lobby. Fury had arrived and had agreed with Stark that he'd help the SHIELD techs make more arrowheads at a nearby mechanical workshop, the rest of the team would go home, and Phil would remain here at the hotel with Barton. 

 

Phil couldn't make himself meet Clint's eyes. "Agent." was all he said as he walked to the elevator. _Don't follow me, don't follow me_. Phil prayed silently. He entered the elevator, went up to his room and leaned back on the door as it closed behind him, taking a deep breath and savouring the cool, crisp blankness of the space. No betrayals of trust to think about or worry over. An empty hotel room felt like a clean sheet of paper. He took off his jacket and hung it up. Placed the toothbrush he carried everywhere in the bathroom next to the plastic covered cups and tiny soaps. He heard the door to the next room shut. Barton's room. He tried not to think about him being so close.

 

He checked the room for bugs, despite himself. It was a dyed in the wool habit of a career agent. There was nothing in the bible, nothing in the shaver outlet, nothing in the TV remote. He opened each drawer and door, gave each a cursory sweep and touch, found nothing untoward. There was a door set in the wall, an adjoining door to the next room. Clint's room. Phil opened it to check the small space between them, finding nothing. And then he just looked at it. The cream-painted wood as blank as the rest of the room, yet feeling like it was crammed with meaning. Phil reached a hand out to touch it, as if... what? He had no idea what he was doing. Clint was like that fucking tesseract, messing with his mind whenever he got close. 

 

He stood there for a moment before pulling away. Best get started with some of the endless paperwork. But as he stepped back, the other door suddenly opened, and there was Clint Barton.

 

YYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

 

"Phil."

"Uh, Agent." _What what what is happening._

"So I'm back to Agent now?" He cocked his head slightly, narrowed his eyes. 

Phil swallowed, tried to keep up his nonplussed Coulson-esque persona, even though the only other person here was the man who had seen first hand just how un-cool he could be.

"Do you need something, Barton?" He tried to sound tired, bored. Like he had any kind of plan right now other than not passing out. Praying to Hydra that one of their squidbots would suddenly reach in and pull him out the window.

" _Yeah_ , I need something." And then Clint was in Phil's room.

 

Clint pushed Phil, stepping into his space and shoving him backwards. Phil fell onto the bed. He opened his mouth to say something. _This isn't appropriate behaviour, Barton._ Or _you need to go back to your room_. But how was he meant to say anything when Clint Barton was leaning over him, breathing heavily, face and arms streaked with god knows what from the mission. Phil looked over to the side, looking for an escape but being distracted by that _arm_. 

 

He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, had to shut this out if he was going to come back to himself and regain control of the situation, but then a hand was on his jaw, pulling his face around. He kept his eyes shut, knew they'd betray exactly what this was doing to him (as if his dick wasn't threatening to ruin a good few hundred dollars of tailoring already), but then... lips. Pillowy soft lips colliding with his own. he tried to reach up, push Barton away, do _something_ , but Clint's weight was on him, his hands were suddenly on his, pushing them up above his head. He wanted to protest, probably _could_ get some kind of leverage to push back, get out, but- sexual fantasy number 68 was currently happening and his brain was malfunctioning. When he felt a hand unbuttoning and reaching into his shirt, it was over.

 

"I've been thinking about that cock of yours ever since I got the call" Barton breathed, hands yanking Phil's shirt out of his trousers. _What. Is. Happening._

"All day long, been thinking about sucking it, trying to figure out if I could swallow it all." _Brain going off line. Signing off._

"You know I did some sword swallowing in the circus." 

The visual of Clint Barton swallowing him whole just about finished him off right there. Phil tried to focus on how this was wrong, bad, the worst. How he was taking advantage of the person who was currently unbuckling his belt for him. 

"Barton!" He managed to squeak out. Clint leaned up to unzip his vest, ignoring Phil's demands to stop this immediately that somehow wouldn't come out as anything more than, "Uhn!" 

"They taught me a lot of tricks in the circus, _sir_ ," Clint said, shucking out of his vest and somehow throwing it so it hung perfectly on the back of the chair by the desk. 

 

Phil's dick-brain was threatening to take over. 

"This isn't-" appropriate. The word is _appropriate_ , Phil. But there were those lips again, those hands on his tie, on his collar, between them, on the bulge that would betray any denial he might try to make that he wasn't career-endingly into this. 

"I want you to fuck me again, Coulson." Clint whispered into his ear. 

 

That did it. Phil pushed up and over, Clint basically letting him, since he was by far the stronger of the two. 

_This was happening? I guess it's happening. He just said he wants me to fuck him, no technically's about it._

 

Phil straddled him, shuffling forwards until he was sitting on Clint's chest with the crotch of his pants framing his face. 

"You want it?" 

Phil opened his pants and reached in. He felt Clint's hands come up behind him and scratch down his lower back. It felt like _burning_.

"Give it to me." 

Phil pulled out his dick, holding it over Clint's face. Clint stuck his tongue out, tried to get contact. _God, you're sexy,_ Phil thought. He needed to hear it though, had to have some mental consent form filled in so he could pretend to justify this to himself. 

"What do you want to do, Barton?" 

He looked defiant. Bartonesque. "I want to suck your fucking cock, _sir_."

 

With that, Phil let go of his dick, allowing it to flop onto Clint's face with a soft slapping sound. _Fantasy 111._ Clint scraped down his back and licked up at the flesh of Phil's cock draped over his face. Phil gripped it, directing the head to Clint's mouth. He wouldn't get much in the way of a blowjob at this angle, but to see Clint constrained like this with his mouth wrapped around him and sucking hard, well that was fantasies number 7 and 98 ticked off. Clint looked fucking _sinful_. Phil pulled his dick back out to watch it push back in, but Clint had other ideas. The hands at Phil's back were suddenly around his thighs, Clint rolling them both so Phil was on his back with Clint's face perched above his stiffening cock. He licked at the head as it swayed and jumped a few times before leaning back and pulling off Phil's shoes and socks, throwing them behind him. 

 

"I wanna see you naked." Phil didn't really have a response to that. Why did Barton want to see _him_ naked? His body wasn't all that impressive, especially in comparison to Clint, let alone the rest of his super-friends. But he wasn't about to deny Clint anything he asked for. 

 

The trousers were the first to go, followed by the undone shirt, leaving him in just his underpants with his dick already sticking out of them. Phil felt exposed, silly. At some point, Clint had pulled off his own boots and the leather trousers he wore on heavy duty missions like these, the ones Phil could barely even look at without having to have a ten minute break in a locked office. He was sad he'd missed seeing him take them off. _Fantasy 104._

 

Phil felt like he should say something, apologise for the lacklustre sight of his mostly naked body, but Barton was currently kissing across his chest, his own filling out cock rubbing against Phil's leg. _This must just be post-mission adrenaline_ , Phil rationalised. _Any port in a storm_ , he figured. 

 

But then Barton was pulling off his underwear and rolling him over, and saying, "god I've wanted to see this for _ever_." before squeezing and biting Phil on the ass. His _ass_? _His_ ass? Clint Barton had the best ass in all of SHIELD as confirmed by an anonymous poll held last Christmas. What did he care for Phil's unassuming butt? 

 

Before he could verbalise any of this, or even really think it through properly, there was a tongue probing at his asshole. He jolted at the sensation. No one had done that since he was in college. 

"Do you like that? You like when I lick your ass?" Phil could do nothing but swallow and listen to the sound of his blood pumping in his ears. Honestly he didn't much care for people doing things to his ass, which was unfortunate what with his _condition_ , but if it was Barton, he'd basically do anything. The man ruined him. 

 

"Do you want to fuck me, Barton?" He asked the room at large. Clint growled.

"Maybe another time." He replied, licking a wide stripe across Phil's hole once more before manhandling him back over. Phil's cock was completely hard now, comically pornographic. Clint licked his lips at the sight of it, seemed to consider something, looking around the room briefly before getting up and moving off of the bed. Phil's heart sank. He'd had second thoughts. Of course he had. How could he not change his mind after seeing Phil totally naked and realised how ridiculous he was? Obviously this wasn't actually going to happen, not again.

 

"Sit on the edge of the bed." Clint had reappeared, now kneeling on the floor. 

Phil took a moment to understand what he'd heard. He sat up and shifted to sit infront of Clint, who's hands wrapped around the back of his knees to pull him forward so he was perched right at the side of the bed. _What are you doing to me, Barton?!_

 

Clint seemed to steel himself. It was same look Phil had seen when Barton was focussed on a particularly tricky target. The next thing he knew, Clint was sucking his dick. Just the first few inches as he worked the rest with his hands, but it was _delicious_. His arms felt like they'd give out so he lay back on his elbows, watching Clint's head bob up and down on him. _Fantasy 12 was a go._ Suddenly, he felt Clint's mouth further down his cock, a good 5 inches or so, felt the soft resistance of the back of his throat. 

 

But then he was even further in, could feel the tightness of Clint's throat opening up for him, felt Clint pulling himself down, gripping hard onto the backs of Phil's knees. Clint's eyes were closed, shut tight with the effort, but suddenly they snapped open, fixing Phil with their gaze, as if to say _"this is mine."_  

 

Phil swallowed again, fought the urge to thrust into Clint's mouth. Clint pulled off then, heaving air into his lungs as soon as his mouth was free and licking his lips. 

"Fuck, Clint-" was all Phil could say before Clint sucked him down again. Phil could do nothing more than groan at the squeezing sensation of Clint's throat trying to swallow his cock. 

 

He pulled off once more, looked up at Phil. 

"Fuck my throat, Phil" he croaked out. 

Phil was undone. This was it. If he was going to get ruined forever, he might as well go out with a bang. And who was he to say no to _Fantasy 3?_

"Are you- do you- are you sure?"

Clint licked his lips like an absolute _whore_ and nodded, eyes piercing into Phil like so many arrows.

"I have to- I need to stand up." Phil croaked out, sounding like _he_ was the one who had just been deepthroating a grotesquely huge dick.

 

Clint just nodded and let go of Phil's knees. Phil stood up on shaky legs and Clint licked his lips, opened his mouth again, and then sucked him down once more. Phil just stood there, unable to move, til he felt Clint's hands on his, pulling them up to his head. Phil's fingers threaded through Clint's hair, flecked with the grease and debris of a hard-fought mission. 

"Are you sure you-" Clint pulled off again to glare up at Phil.

"I _told_ you to fuck my throat, _sir_." He rasped, resuming his place on Phil's cock. Phil didn't need telling again, using his hands to pull Clint's head further onto it. He could feel himself getting deeper and deeper into his throat. He pulled out, pushed back in. Pulled all the way back out so Clint could take a breath. Before he even had much of a moment to fill his lungs with oxygen, Phil felt himself pulling him onto his dick once more, shallowly fucking it three times before pulling off, Clint gasping and spluttering, before being pushed back on. The next time he pulled him off and gave him a moment longer to breathe, between strings of saliva, Clint whined, "I want your fucking cock in me so bad", before lunging back down on it.

 

Phil was at once horrified and turned on more than he'd ever been. He kept fucking Clint's throat- it was at Clint's behest, so it was _technically_ OK- reaching down at one point to feel his throat stretching around him. This was so bad. This was so good. This was everything he should never be doing and he never wanted to stop. Clint there on his knees like he had been in so many lonely fantasies. If this was it, then fine, he'd die happy.

 

But if this was it, he didn't want to just come and be done with it, as amazing- _and it was amazing_ \- as this blowjob was, _technically_ , Clint had said something about having his dick _in_ him. Once Clint broke away for some air again, Phil took the hand that was still around his throat and pulled up, Clint standing so he was facing him, those shiny _filthy_ lips inches away from his.

 

"You want my dick in you, Clint?" Clint just nodded. 

"Say it. Say you want me to fuck you." 

Clint's voice was a whisper at first, broken. 

"--- I - I want you to fuck me so fucking bad Phil. I need your cock. Fuck my ass Phil-" 

He was cut off with a slap. Phil looked at his hand. He didn't mean to do that. Sure it was up in the 200s in the list, but still. Clint's head snapped back towards him, his eyes half lidded. This was it, the end. Clint was going to go to his room and come back with his bow or a bunch of knives and all that would be left of Phil would be a series of complicatedly tailored suits and a small collection of cactuses. 

 

But Clint didn't leave, he surged up, launching onto Phil and toppling them onto the bed. 

"Fuck me, Phil. Fuck me like you said you wanted to last time. Til I can't even aim right. Treat me like a slut. A fucking slut for your cock, Phil." And then he was biting Phil's earlobe. Phil was _done_.

 

"You _are_ a slut, Barton. You want my cock?" 

He nodded. 

"Turn over." 

And _god_ but Barton's ass was beautiful. Phil had seen Michaelangelo's David in the flesh- the real one too, and it couldn't hold a candle to this. Round, pert, smooth. It definitely deserved the twelve votes he snuck it at Christmas. Phil didn't have any lube this time. It had only been coincidence that he'd had any in his office before- he'd bought it on his lunch break to take home. He wasn't completely depraved, stocked up on lube everywhere he went. 

 

He grabbed and squeezed Clint's ass, started working up some spit so he wouldn't have to go in dry, realising with a start as he ran a finger between Clint's butt cheeks that he was already wet.

"Stretched myself out for you, sir. Lubed up and ready to go." 

_Holy fucking shit._

"If only you were this diligent with your paperwork" _Yeah, keep it cool, Coulson._ Like he wasn't about to climax at the thought of Clint stretching out his ass just for him.

"Maybe if you promised me a reward for getting it in on time." 

"I'm sure we can work something out." _How was this even happening._

 

Phil pushed two fingers into Clint. He really was loose; warm and inviting around his probing digits. 

"C'mon, I'm ready! Fuck me Phil."

Phil tried to take in everything, commit this moment to memory so he'd be able to think back on this: the moment that truly ended his career. If this was it, he needed to make it count. How could this not be it? It was _too good._

 

He lined up, the tip of his cock nudging Clint's hole, only needing the slightest push to slip inside. They both gasped.

"Oh fuck yes, push it in, baby, push it all the way in, Phil."

Clint tried to shift back to make him go in faster, but Phil wanted to take his time. He slid in slowly, transfixed by the sight of his huge cock disappearing into Barton.

"Do you want it all?" 

"Yeah give it to me, I wanna be full."

 

Phil shuddered at that, kneaded the buttocks beneath his hands, felt Clint's muscles shudder as he pushed ever onwards. 

Clint pushed his face into the bed covers as he let out a plaintive moan. When he moved his head to one side to catch his breath, Phil saw his face was flushed pink, a light shine of sweat over his brow.

"C'mon, Phil, please, give it all to me, I can take it." He was practically begging.

Phil pressed in the last two inches, Clint wracking out a sob as their balls gently brushed together. Phil stayed like that for a long moment as they both caught their breath.

"T-Touch me, Phil." Clint begged, turning his head to mash his face into the covers.

 

Phil was a wreck. He'd do anything Clint asked him to do. Anything. He moved his hands to knead the muscles in the small of Clint's back before going further up, to his shoulder blades and then the tops of his arms, kneading the compact muscles beneath the soft skin dappled with faint scars. Phil recalled mission after mission in his mind, tracing the lines of the scars with his eyes as he worked down Clint's arms, smearing the city grime across them. Wanting to kiss them away, erase the various misfortunes he hadn't been able to keep from befalling his agent. _So beautiful._ He thought. _Perfect_.

 

He moved his hands down to Clint's wrists and hands, kneading the soft pads of his palms as he started to pull back out and move back in. Barton grasped Phil's fingers and threaded his own into them. Phil was transported back to his office, the small gesture of holding hands like it meant something. _Maybe it did. Maybe it does._ But he couldn't think like that right now.This was this, not tomorrow. _Forget about tomorrow._

 

Phil started to thrust, shallowly at first, getting deeper as he went on. Clint was moaning into the bed, hands clinging onto Phil's. 

"You're so. So good, Clint. Never met anyone so good at taking it." Phil was saying, and it was true; even in his office Clint was better than anyone he'd had before. He leaned down to kiss Clint, brush his lips over the shoulders he would never get tired of looking at, bite ever so gently at his neck while he kept fucking into Clint as he'd been asked. The hands on his suddenly squeezed, making him stop.

"I- I wanna ride you, Phil." Clint said into the covers. 

__

_Perhaps I'm in a coma,_ thought Phil, _and my brain is fucking with me._

 

Phil slowly pulled out, feeling Clint's whole body shiver as he came away, a pink rosebud forming where his cock had been. Clint scrambled up and turned, pulling Phil down onto the bed before straddling him, his cock grazing across Phil's stomach. He placed his hands either side of Phil's face, gripping him so he could kiss him slowly. _Definitely in a coma_ , he thought. But he kissed back, tried to hold on to the moment. This was Fantasy 1 after all.

 

Clint let go and slid down Phil's body, hitching up to make room to slide down onto Phil's cock. He reached behind and under himself to grip onto it and hold it in place, before slowly sinking down onto Phil's full length.

He was in control now, Phil just had to lay there and take it, watch Fantasy number 4 unfurl above him. Clint rocked slowly up and down so Phil's cock slid in and out of him; one hand on Phil's chest, the other on his own cock, lazily stroking it. Clint let himself sit down fully, Phil's entire dick encased within him. He stayed like that for a moment, eyes fixed on Phil's, so lustful he almost looked lost. Phil reached a hand up to cup his jaw in one hand. 

"You're alright, Barton. You feel so good. My god. I can't believe I'm all the way inside you." Phil's voice was barely a whisper. He was on the edge of oblivion, hopelessly gone. How could life ever be the same after this? 

 

Clint put his own hand over Phil's, pulling it up to coat it in saliva, then downwards to wrap around his own cock. Phil loved Clint's dick, it was almost cute in comparison to his own, dusky and arrow straight. He wanted to lean down and kiss it, but that was impossible with Clint skewered on him like he was. He started to pump it up and down, rubbing the wetness all over it, brushing over the tip to spread the beads of precome that were eking their way out. 

 

Clint leaned forward and braced himself with arms either side of Coulson, let Phil buck up gently into him a few times before he started fucking himself down onto his cock in earnest. Clint's face was a picture of pure debauchery, sweaty and blushing, wet pink lips, lidded eyes trained on him. Those eyes that saw everything. Phil pumped away as Clint rode him, bringing his other hand up to rest on Clint's neck.

 

"You're so amazing." He said, pulling him down with little resistance to kiss those lips, taste them for one more moment. _Delicious_. Phil lost himself in the kiss, the warm pressure in his gut that he'd been willing away ever since Clint had opened that door becoming ever more urgent with Clint's tight warmth moving around him. He pushed his hands back against Clint's body.

 

"You're going to make me come, I can't-"

Clint's brow knotted, understanding yet not wanting to all at once.

"I don't mind." He bit his lip, and Phil could just about come right then, at the sweet, almost innocent way Clint half gave him permission, but even through the haze of sex and how obscenely turned on he was, now wasn't the time for _technically_. He shook his head and pushed at Clint harder. He resisted, fucking him relentlessly.

 

"I want it! I want it Phil. Come in my ass, please?" He was _begging_.

"No! I'm not gonna do that!" Phil pushed again. _What are you trying to do to me, Barton?_ Phil swallowed and tried to hold back. He may have been one of the most restrained people in the world, but even he was having trouble not coming right now. 

 

"You have. To... Clint. Stop! Don't make me. Come inside you!" He sobbed out, pushing as hard as he could on Clint to try to get him off of him. Clint finally acquiesced, lifting off of Phil with a sob before scrambling to suck on the head of his cock, which instantly erupted with cum. Phil roared as he came, his hands fisting in the sheets, his toes curling. Clint reached down to grab one of Phil's hands, working his fingers into the fist and holding on tightly as Phil gushed into his mouth. 

 

Clint bobbed his mouth over it a few times before seeming satisfied that no more was forthcoming. He pulled away and spat Phil's load into his hand and then - _such a slut-_ coated his own cock with it, jerking it twice before coming himself, spraying it over the bed and Phil's side. 

 

Phil took in the sight of him through eyes that were barely able to focus. Clint looked _ruined_ , right down to the tiny drop of semen that had escaped onto his cheek. _Perfect_.

" _Fuck_." He said as he flopped down next to Phil, breathless. 

"Yeah. I know." Phil agreed. 

They lay like that for a few precious moments, Phil dreading what had to come next.

 

Now what? He thought, fighting the pull to sleep, fighting the urge to cuddle up to the body next to him even harder. He wanted to spoon him, wanted to hold on and brush his fingertips over his skin, whisper sweet words into his ear. Kiss him gently and rock him to sleep. But, he couldn't. That's not what Clint wanted, he just wanted to prove something to himself, quite what, Phil wasn't sure. But he'd probably be laughing about this in the dining hall in a few days once they were back on base. He'd just been cock-deep in the guy and now he felt further away than ever.

 

He risked a look over to Clint, who was still panting, looking up at the ceiling. He turned his head to look at Phil, a magnificent grin on his face which instantly fell once he saw Phil's expression. 

"Oh. I guess you want me to leave?" He searched Phil's face. Phil tried to maintain a neutral expression, didn't want to show just how much he _didn't_ want that, never ever wanted him to leave. 

"You're welcome to stay." Phil said, exactly how he didn't mean it to sound: like a polite dismissal. 

Barton smirked and rolled his eyes. 

" _Right_. See ya tomorrow, boss." He got up, barely able to disguise the shakiness of his legs as he gathered his things and made for the door back to his room. 

 

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

__

 

 _Jesus fucking Christ, are you kidding me?_ Clint fumed to himself, pacing up and down his room, the identical mirror image of the one he'd just fucked Coulson in. Been fucked by Coulson in. And then practically been told to get the fuck out of afterwards. Who was this _robot_? _What a f_ _ucking douchebag!_

 

He was still naked, covered in cum, asshole stretched out, beyond repair probably. And not even a kiss goodnight? No! This was _not_ ok. 

 

He yanked the door open again. Coulson hadn't moved from the bed, but he looked up at the sound of the door. 

"You're a fucking asshole, you know that?"

At least Phil looked vaguely surprised for once. 

"You can't just, fuck me and then make me get out!"

Phil looked pained. "I didn't--"

"Oh no, you were so adamant that you wanted me to stay, I practically had to tear myself away!"

"Clint, I-"

"What? You need me to leave so you can do some paperwork? Fine. Just. Fuck you OK?" He was pointing a finger at Phil from the doorway. Phil's non-reaction made him feel a little ridiculous.

 

"Clint. Could you. Come here? For a minute?" 

Clint huffed and walked over, Coulson was still laying on the bed naked. He put his hands on his hips. "What?"

Phil swallowed. What crap was he going to come out with now? Such an _asshole_.

 

Phil moved over on the bed, over the wet spots of their mixed together cum, making a space so... what? So Clint could be the little spoon? Psh.

Phil rolled on one side and held out a hand. When Clint didn't do anything he reached forward and took one of his hands, pulling him down towards the bed.

"Uh, I don't know if you remember but we _just_ fucked. I doubt even _you_ are rigid enough to go again already."

Clint sat and then laid down on the bed in a put upon manner. 

"What, are we gonna _cuddle_?" He rolled his eyes. This was so dumb. Stupid Coulson.

Phil let go of his hand and wrapped an arm over Clint's chest. Clint maybe snuggled into it a little. A tiny bit. 

"Barton."

"What?"

Phil pressed a kiss under his ear. "Shut up." 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to end this with Coulson dismissing Clint again but I just couldn't do it! I wanted some fluffy closure for once, not like the neverending Steve/Tony opus I've somehow ended up writing. 
> 
> I love Clint/Phil, they're my favourite ship. Even though this storyline is done I kind of want to keep writing them in this quasi-AU with Phil just living life with a big ol' dick.


End file.
